


Red River

by peppermintquartz



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baze as former warrior, Chirrut as a wandering monk, Gen, Maybe Pre-Slash? - Freeform, Pre-Friendship, Sorry not wandering, i'm not continuing this though it's DONE, just traveling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintquartz/pseuds/peppermintquartz
Summary: Red River as a nod to the poem 满江红, attributed to a famous general of the Song Dynasty.





	

Baze is used to living alone.

Out here, in a small village on the borders between Khan territory and Cionu lands, he keeps to himself and lives a simple life.

As a blacksmith, he's valuable in any city or town. He chose this small nondescript village instead. It is too far away from the passes and the main trade routes, nowhere near a site of tactical advantage. It is useless to the military, and thus it survives.

He's often away from his hut anyway, foraging for food or hunting. He doesn't grow things. Helping things grow does not come easily for Baze.

The villagers don't ask questions. They have him repair simple things like farming tools or the occasional plow. They leave him practical things to barter for his services: rice, wine, tea leaves, salt, oil. Occasionally some pot-iron.

Good iron goes to the army. Those who do give him iron took it from battlefields, often their own gear and weapons, and let him have it in exchange for shelter and food for a night or two. He doesn't shame them for running, because war is not glory. It is pain and blood and death.

He ran too. This was the first place he had felt safe enough to stop. It is no wonder the others coming this way would stop here as well.

He's on the outskirts, as far away from the village as he can manage it. He prefers it this way. Where there are people, there is trouble, and he has left trouble behind him five years ago.

His master led him and his brother pugilists to the battlefield to aid the general, and then the general had them killed after the victory in fear that they would steal the credit. He had been lucky, because he had been at the apothecary's getting herbs for their injuries, when a foot soldier he'd saved came running to tell him to flee.

Baze is sure that foot soldier is dead for his act of gratitude and kindness. He pours a cup of wine out on the ground for his savior whenever he drinks.

*

There is a war again. Peace is not a lasting commodity in these times.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, they hear that the Khan army is heading north. There will be battles again, and countless dead. There are whispers that this time, the Khan will defeat the Cionu. There is a great general at the helm this time, who has won dozens of battles, and they are already near the pass. 

The villagers hear of the clashes at the nearest mountain pass and debate whether they should head south.

This is the same general who executed Baze's master and brothers. He debates with himself what he should do.

*

Then there came a Cionu scout in the middle of night. The scout made the mistake of pausing outside Baze's hut.

He buries the scout in eight different places, burns the clothes and melts what he could not burn. He keeps the helmet. They will send more scouts until one returns, but Baze will not let any of them escape him if he can help it.

He sets traps in the hills and that evening, goes to the village tavern to tell the villagers to pack up and go. He doesn't know how long they have and it's best to leave while they have safe passage. Some try to argue, claiming that Baze just wants their possessions, but he sets the scout's helmet on the table.

“Can you hold back an army?” he asks. “They are coming. Return when the war is over.”

The belligerent voices are silenced.

The next dawn, the first of twenty-one families leave on their ancient ox-cart. By the evening, only three families are left.

By the third day, all of them have gone.

*

Baze does not go.

He has enough supplies, and he spends his days sharpening his saber and crafting evil-looking mechanisms after he checks his traps up the approach and in the hillsides. At night he sleeps lightly, his weapons by his hand. He does not light candles and he keeps his cooking to a minimum.

*

Then a stranger comes.

He is not a Cionu scout, Baze can tell. The man is dressed as a monk, with a bamboo stick for support and to guide his way. Straw hat, gray traveling cloak, black robes, red under-robe, and straw sandals: he is not from the north. Northerners prefer cloth boots and dun shades.

The blind monk walks steadily into the middle of the village, as if he knows where he's headed.

“Anyone here?” the monk calls out. “One of your traps has caught a rude man.”

Baze waits in the shade of the former tavern. Its flag flaps in the wind.

“He shouted at me,” the monk continues.

Baze wonders what to do.

The blind monk says, “I cracked him across the back of his skull for yelling. If you don't mind, I'd like a place to sit down and have something to eat, please.”

“Here,” Baze says. “There's only cold tea from this morning, and a plain bun. I'll go check on the trap.”

“It's the one in the west by the brook,” the monk says helpfully as he taptaptaps his stick into the tavern. He thanks Baze for the food and drink, and begins eating without even considering that Baze might have poisoned the scant meal.

His eyes are a clouded blue, and judging by his short hair, he has been on the road for some time.

Baze shakes his head and heads out.

*

When he returns an hour later, the monk has made himself comfortable in the tavern. The benches are pushed together for him to lie on, and he has shed his dusty outer robe to make a pillow for his head. His stick is by his hand.

He's actually snoring softly.

Baze pours himself some tea. This is no place for a blind man, yet this blind man clearly managed to navigate all the way to the village through multiple traps and a difficult terrain.

“And I can crack a man's skull too,” the monk murmurs. He smiles without opening his eyes. “My name is Chirrut, of the Imwe temple.”

“Baze.”

“And what do you do, Baze? Other than set traps for people?”

“Blacksmith.”

“Where am I?” Chirrut asks.

“Outside the gates of hell.”

“Oh, good! We're not inside, at least.”

That is not the response he expected, and that startles a short huff of laughter from him. It's been years since he laughed, he remembers, and he shakes his head again. “It's just a tiny village,” he tells Chirrut. “And where is this... Imwe temple?”

Chirrut sits up and stretches. “I don't know. I left it one thousand, four hundred and seven days ago, and I've been all over Khan, so I can't begin to tell you where it is, other than 'south', a few thousand miles away.”

“One thousand four hundred and seven days?”

“Technically, one thousand four hundred and six and a quarter days. I left in the evening.”

“Why did you leave?”

Chirrut smiles brightly. “For that, you're going to have to give me dinner and some wine. Now, why the traps? I could have walked into any of them!”

*

When Baze explains the scenario, the monk hums quietly. Then he smiles and says in a non sequitur, “I'm good at listening.”

“What?”

“You can rest better at night if someone is on watch, right? And I'm really good at listening. I don't even need a light to find my way after you walk me around the village for a bit.”

Baze chuckles in disbelief. “You know I'm here to wait to die, right?”

“So? Why die without a friend by your side?” Chirrut stands and walks to Baze, nearly clipping his knee on one of the benches. When he is just a pace from Baze, he says, “I hear your breathing and your footsteps. I know you're not just any blacksmith. You're a master pugilist. From the Malbus school or a branch thereof.”

Baze's shoulders tense. “Who _are_ you?”

“Chirrut, of Imwe temple. I'm just a simple blind monk.” The monk lays a hand over Baze's heart. “All of the pugilistic world heard of the injustice. They say there were no survivors. But you have survived.”

The blacksmith slaps Chirrut's hand away. “I died there.”

“If you had, then your heart would not have beat so hard against my palm, and you would have discarded your name.”

“Screw you.” Baze stalks away, leaving the monk behind in the tavern.

*

The Cionu have lost two scouts. They will send a scouting party now, in case there are Khan troops stationed here.

Question is, how many will be in the scouting party?

He stations himself at his little hut on the outside of the village. There's a nice spot under the roof where he can look out over the approach. Anyone wanting to get to the village will have to pass through there.

As the sun sets, he relaxes. Until he hears the 'taptaptap' of a bamboo stick.

“Bastard monk,” he swears softly.

Chirrut pokes his head into the hut. “Hey, that's not fair. I do know my parents. Not their fault that they died from illness.”

“What do you want now?”

“Dinner and wine,” says the monk. The stick he's holding looks thicker than Baze recalls.

He rolls his eyes and hops down from the perch under the roof. “You're a monk, are you allowed to drink wine?”

Chirrut grins. “Not really, but who's going to tell my abbot?”

*

By the end of the evening, Baze learns a few things.

One, Chirrut is one stubborn bastard. He doesn't take Baze's aloofness or rudeness as anything more than an attempt to drive him away, and insists on staying to help him take out as many Cionu as they can.

Two, Chirrut can hold his drink. They finish one jar of Baze's reserve, and he's only slightly flushed. It's incredibly annoying. Baze finds himself respecting the monk a little more.

He tells Baze about one moment one thousand four hundred and ten days ago. “I was sweeping the Jedai Hall, and then it was like a path unfolded before me, telling me to follow it. I had never even been away from the temple before. But I could not stop thinking about it, and after consulting the abbot, I left with my walking stick, a string of coins, and a few changes of clothes.”

“And you just wandered?”

“Wandering suggests that I do not know the way. No, I followed. Wherever I went, wherever I stayed, I listened to the voice that rolled out the path in the first place. The abbot called it the Force. Says it's all around us.”

Baze snorts. “Most times, when people say they hear something in their head, they're crazy.”

“Who says I'm not?” laughs Chirrut. His humor remains in his face as he adds, “The Force led me here, after nearly five years. It led me to you.”

The blacksmith looks askance at Chirrut, who isn't aware of Baze's incredulity and sips his wine serenely. Then the monk sets down his cup.

“I can't drink anymore if I am to keep watch.” After a pause, he grins. “Figuratively speaking.”

*

Baze sleeps soundly for the first time since the villagers left.

He thinks it's because of the monotony of Chirrut's softly chanted prayers.

When he wakes briefly in the middle of the night as is his habit, it is entirely silent, and for a heartbeat he thinks Chirrut has gone.

Then he hears Chirrut whisper, “All is safe. Sleep.”

Baze grunts and rolls over. Between one breath and the next, he is in deep sleep again.

*

The Cionu come at dawn. The scouting party is about fifteen strong, Baze sees, and they are heading up the approach when one of them trigger a log trap.

Chirrut follows Baze into the village square.

“Why are you doing this?” Chirrut asks as they wait for the Cionu to arrive. “I'd have thought you would go after that damned general.”

Baze checks sight lines and gets ready to unleash the first of his many traps. “Stay behind me until I say otherwise.”

“You've not answered me.”

“Afterwards,” says Baze. “If we live.”

*

Baze's traps fire metal darts straight into the thighs of the first three that canter up towards them. The nine that follow are smarter and keep close to the walls of the houses around the square, but when they pass Old Wen's, that sets off a cascade of rough brick and stone. That knocks another one out cold. Chirrut mutters something about “childish tricks” but he sounds amused.

“Who are you?” demands the leader.

Baze lifts his chin. “You can turn back and tell your general that this is not the way into Khan, or you can die here.”

“Who _are_ you?” the leader yells again.

“I don't like when they yell,” Chirrut grumbles behind Baze. “What does he look like?”

Baze smiles. He can't remember the last time he smiled this often. “Like a scrawny rat.”

“May I stand in front of you now?”

“One more trap.”

As if right on cue, the leader shouts two more of his men to charge Baze. Baze braces himself and then lifts his left foot, releasing a rope. The two men fall into a pit lined with pitchforks. Their screams are sharp, but they aren't dead.

Chirrut pokes Baze in the small of his back. “I could have fallen in that!”

“You didn't.”

“Screw you,” says Chirrut, and laughter is in his voice before he darts in front of Baze, swatting aside a horsebow bolt that is fired at Baze. “My turn.”

The monk fights like he's dancing. His staff is a blur, cracking against shins and knees, bringing them down from their horses. Once the spooked animals skitter off, he attacks with dizzying speed.

Watching him mow down the Cionu, Baze recalls the days when he sparred with his brothers, when they went through forms in the yard, their master correcting them. Them taking on soldiers in the battlefield, a feral and primal joy from killing enemies. Chirrut doesn't try to kill. His staff smacks – hard – into their joints or across their faces, sending them crashing to the dusty ground.

The one still standing is the leader of the scouting party. He is panting heavily, his wide blade nearly steady as he faces Chirrut. “Who are you?”

“Just a blind monk,” says Chirrut with a smile.

Sheathing his saber, Baze strides forward and picks up a horsebow from one of the fallen men. He aims it at the leader. “Go back, tell your general that this area is riddled with too many dangerous slopes and blind spots. It is of no use.”

The leader wavers. He drops his blade. “Fine.”

Baze jerks his head at the others groaning on the ground. “Take all of them with you.”

As they limp away, some thrown over their horses, Chirrut says to Baze, “They'll come back.”

“They probably will. The general will insist on killing those who had the audacity of beating up his scouting party.”

“So why do this?”

Baze's lips curl. “Because by the time they're here, we're gone, and the general would have been delayed five days or more. The Khan general will be able to gain the better ground.”

Chirrut follows silently as Baze goes back to his hut to collect his meager possessions. The monk waits until Baze is done packing before he says, “I'm glad the Force led me to you.”

“That general who killed my master will die,” says Baze, “when the war is over. Right now, he's Khan's best hope. He's alive because his death will mean the deaths of millions. When he's no longer useful, then I will offer his blood to my master and my brothers.”

Chirrut grins. “You're a kind soul, Baze of the Malbus school.”

“Whatever you want to believe.” The blacksmith pauses at the doorway. “Where do you want to go next?”

“We'll let the Force decide,” says Chirrut. He tosses his stick into the air, and Baze watches it spin. When it lands, the two set off in the direction it points.

It is as good a method to decide as any.

*

From that day onward, wherever they go, they go together.

**Author's Note:**

> Red River as a nod to the poem 满江红, attributed to a famous general of the Song Dynasty.


End file.
